


Smoke in the Wind

by HerotheHardWay



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Baz is worried for his bf, Baz plays a viola, M/M, Magical Sickness, Penny is a BAMF, Pitch family mansion, Sick!Simon, Simon uncontrollably absorbing magic, Some Humor, Some angst, Some cute, those two braniacs work together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-28 10:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6324706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerotheHardWay/pseuds/HerotheHardWay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything is fine.  Everything Baz thought was good and stable isn't disintegrating, burning to ashes in front of his eyes. Simon isn't crinkling at the edges and getting hotter every second, smoke spiraling into the air.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rice with Cheese

Baz

I’m burning up. And it’s never going to stop.

Maybe I should back up. Tyrannus Basilton Pitch-Grimm. Whatever my parents were thinking when they named me, they couldn’t have been thinking clearly. Who the hell names their baby Tyrannus? But Baz is fine, it’s what everyone calls me. It’s what Simon calls me. 

And really, everything is fine, life is just perfect. Every day makes sense. I wake up, get dressed, and go to class. (Politics major. I’ve spent my whole life absorbing the political quagmire that is the World of Mages. I thought I should spend the next four years learning about other people’s quagmires.) After classes, I head to Bunce and Simon’s apartment. I wait until Simon gets home, and on Tuesdays, he’s already there. I bring my readings, because my mother believed that education was the highest achievement, and I’ll bloody well honor her memory. I’ll stay there all afternoon and evening, and if I’m lucky, Bunce or Simon will be making dinner and I’ll get food in the bargain. Simon is an awful cook, but they take turns being chef and sous chef, so it’s always edible. It’s infinitely better than eating takeout by myself across town.

Today is a Tuesday, so after Colonialism and Conflict in Central Africa, I walk the fifteen minutes to the apartment. I knock every time I know somebody is home, even though Simon always asks what the point is. “I’m here. You know I’m here. What’s the point. In knocking.” The point is that it’s polite, and that as much as Simon loves Penelope, everything happens in Simon world for him. It doesn’t occur to him that Penelope does see the point. So I always knock. I climb the four flights of stairs to their apartment, and knock.

“Hey Baz,” comes Simon’s voice through the door. I pull out my keys and unlock the door, then stroll into the living room. Simon is sitting crosswise on the couch, leaning on the armrest. He’s got his legs bent, and his laptop is balanced precariously on the tops of his knees. His curly hair is falling in his eyes. The room smells faintly of…burning incense? Christmas? I dismiss the smell in favor of Simon Snow looking extremely edible on the couch.

“Afternoon, Snow.”

“Baz.” Simon growls. I swear, half of Simon’s sentences involve growling. I wonder if he notices, or if it’s just another tone of voice for him?

“Yes, darling?” I drawl innocently. I know what’s got him in a tizzy. And I also know that nothing is going to change.

“I’m your boyfriend. Can’t you just call me Simon like a normal person?” he whines, rather endearingly. (This is how I know that being in love with Simon Snow has sucked all my common sense into a black hole. His whining is adorable.)

“But that would be too easy.” Also, I like seeing him a little off balance. He always looks so kissable when he’s frustrated. I come around the couch, and Simon abruptly half-closes his laptop. “What’ve you been up to this morning?” I ask, and sink into the squashy couch.

“Uh, nothing much. Working. On homework, and stuff.” He stutters.

I raise one eyebrow, and put my hands on his feet. “Homework and stuff. I see.” I have to say, it’s not like Simon to be flustered by me. Usually it’s the other way around, although I’ve gotten much better about it. Better enough to put my hands on his feet and lean towards him. “Well, I guess I won’t bother you then.” I lean over his knees until I can feel his hot breath on my face. “Would you like…” His eyes go wide, and then he starts moving towards me. Like lightning I give him a quick, completely unsatisfactory kiss on the lips and finish my sentence, “a snack?”

Simon growls a real growl this time, closing his laptop completely and pushing it aside. “Baz.”

I give in and kiss him for real this time. He’s always so hot. And his lips are soft. And… I break away, and murmur, “I’m hungry. Do you want a snack?”

Simon, adorable Simon, smiles and clears his throat, but it comes out gravely. “Snacks are good,” he says, and clears his throat again.

I get off the couch, and walk into the kitchen. As usual, there are various stacks of mismatched cups and plates in and next to the sink. “Really Simon, washing dishes isn’t even hard.”

Simon calls from the living room, “I forget to! I didn’t have to wash dishes before Penny and I lived in an apartment. There’s a grace period.”

“Grace periods are for short periods of time. It’s been months, you have no excuse.”

“Ok, fine, I’ll wash the dishes if you’ll make a snack. Just give me a minute.”

I open the fridge, and internally groan. Hopefully Bunce is planning on going to the grocery store soon, because this is ridiculous. There’s a few inches of milk left in a carton, a selection of salad dressing and condiments, part of a block of cheese, (There are several greyish spots,) and a couple sad carrots and slimy lettuce. I’m surprised; Bunce is normally quite on top of the groceries. “Simon…you’re severely lacking in the food department. When was the last time you went shopping?” No sound comes from the living room. I peer around the corner, and see that Simon has curled up on his side, and is apparently asleep. In that case, no need to rush.

The pantry is similarly depleted, but fortunately there are some staples that nobody ever uses up. I grab the bag of rice, then retrieve the milk and cheese, and put enough rice for both of us in a pot with water. Then I set to work trimming the mold off the cheese. Fifteen minutes later, I divvy up the rice concoction in two bowls, then bring them into the living room and set them on the coffee table. I gently shake Simon’s arm, and he groggily sits up. “I made us a snack, do you want a bowl?” I offer, gesturing to the bowl.

Simon reaches for the bowl, then pauses. “What exactly is this?”

“It’s cheesy rice.”

“It looks like yellow maggots.”

“It’s cheesy rice.”

Simon looks doubtful, then slowly takes a bite. His expression changes from suspicious to blissful in an instant. He closes his eyes and moans. “Jesus Baz, these are the best maggots I’ve ever had.”

I raise one eyebrow. “I’m glad you approve.” Then I join him in inhaling the rice. It’s even better than I expected, considering how basic it was to make. But it hits all the right comfort food buttons. I finish mine, and as usual, Simon is already done. With his table manners, it’s surprising he’s never choked on food. I gather the dishes, and take them to the kitchen. The other dirty dishes are still there, since Simon took a nap instead of washing them. I add the new dishes and sing, “Don’t believe me, ask the dishes!” Disney movies are a sure bet for spells, and because of my sister Mordelia, I know all the songs. The mortifying part is that you have to sing the spells, but it’s the most effective spell I’ve come across. The dishes start moving into the sink, and the water turns on. Dishes started, I go back into the other room. My boyfriend is once again asleep. It’s unusual; normally after eating he’s full of energy and ready for action. I frown, and sit down next to his head. I put my hand on his forehead and even before I touch him, I can feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace.

Simon is always hot, and I don’t just mean he’s attractive. He’s like a heater, and I love sharing a bed with him because it means I can absorb all that heat and be warm for once. But he’s burning up now, far hotter than he should be. Simon has a fever, and a high one. I stand up and scoop him up, bridal style. I suppose vampire strength does occasionally have advantages, like when you need to take Simon Snow to bed. (In both senses.) I carry him into his bedroom and lay him down on top of the quilt of his twin bed. He’s still sleeping, so I go to fetch an ice pack to try to cool him down. I return and he’s awake, but obviously feverish.

“I’m cold.” He says, and curls up into a ball.

I figure he might as well be comfortable, but as soon as he’s under the covers, he’s hot again, and throws them off. I can see he’s sweating. I’m starting to panic a little on the inside, although I don’t show it. Simon was perfectly fine, if a little lethargic when I got here. In under an hour, he’s developed a dangerously high fever, and can’t stay awake for a few minutes. There’s no way this is a Normal fever. I’m going to call Dr. Wellbelove. Maybe I’m overreacting, but better safe than sorry, right? I don’t want to leave Simon, even for a minute, but he obviously needs help as soon as possible. I retrieve my cell phone and scroll through the numbers. I don’t actually have his number, but I’m sure Penelope does. I can call her and ask; I’m not going to rely on a text.

“Hello, it’s Penny.”

“Bunce. Penelope. I need Agatha’s father’s number, it’s an emergency.”

I can hear the alarm in her voice when she answers, “Ok, hang on. Is everything all right? Is Simon okay? Are you okay? Is anyone injured?”

“Nobody’s injured, but Simon has an alarmingly high fever. I suspect it’s of the Magical kind.”

“I think his number is…hang on… number is oh-two-oh, seven-nine-four-six, oh-eight-four-two. Should I come ho-“

“There’s no time to talk,” I cut her off. “You should come here as soon as possible. Goodbye.” As soon as I hang up I’m dialing Dr. Wellbelove’s number.


	2. Light Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon's fever continues to climb, as Penny and Baz scramble to figure out what to do.

Baz

The phone rings for a while, and I’m imagining what I’ll do if Dr. Wellbelove doesn’t pick up. Should I take Simon to a Normal hospital? I doubt they’ll know what to do. What if I can’t do anything? What if he-

“Hello, Dr. Wellbelove speaking.”

I shift into my formal voice. “Hello Dr. Wellbelove, this is Basilton Pitch calling, it’s an emergency.”

He pauses for a second, maybe in surprise, then responds, “What is the situation, Pitch?”

Pitch. Nice. No matter that I’m dating one of Agatha’s friends (and for a while boyfriend) and friends with the other. I’m a Pitch, first and foremost. I brush it off though. Simon is more important. Oh Crowley Simon. “Simon is really sick. I need you to come look at him.” Merlin I sound needy. “He could be dying.” I say in a lower voice. I’ve admitted the fear I’ve had since he went to sleep on me a few minutes ago. That he’ll never wake up. It’s a ridiculous fear; he only has a fever and it’s only been 25 minutes. But it’s a ridiculously high one, and it’s too easy for my mind to run away with all the things that could happen before Dr. Wellbelove gets here.

“I’ll be there as soon as possible. Remind me of your address?”

I recite our address, then hang up and go to check on Simon. I walk into his bedroom and can only stare. He’s under the covers again, and now he’s shivering, but I can see the sweat on his forehead. That’s not why I’m suddenly ten times more alarmed than I was a minute ago. The lump under the covers is much too big for just Simon’s body. It extends past his spine, and lifts the quilt almost off his body. It’s his wings, his fucking dragon wings. I let loose a long string of curses, then sink onto the bed and bury my face in my arms. This is most definitely not a Normal fever. 

As far as I know, Simon’s magic is completely gone, so he shouldn’t even be able to get Magically sick. But there’s no other explanation to how on earth Simon’s wings are visible and corporeal. Simon’s wings and tail quickly established themselves as a major problem once he couldn’t get rid of them. For one, his wings are huge. They had to be, to be able to allow Simon to fly. Simon couldn’t be seen with those wings; he’d cause a riot if he went out in public. So Bunce and I worked constantly to figure out how to hide them, since they were impossible to get rid of. I must say, Penelope Bunce is a truly talented mage. Her grasp on language is impressive, and she’s also extremely powerful. I enjoy working with her. We tried and tried to make Simon’s wings disappear, or be invisible, but nothing was working. Then Penelope tried something bizarre. Quick as a flash. I though she was insane. But Simon’s wings disappeared, and they weren’t just invisible, it was like they weren’t there at all. I asked Penelope about it, and she said she’d gotten the idea from her boyfriend Micah. American mages send their kids to regular school, so Micah knows physics. According to Penelope, if you’re powerful enough, and know what you’re talking about, you can make things disappear because flashes are light, and light doesn’t have any mass or weight or anything. We weren’t totally sure where the wings had gone, but Simon could still feel them, so we figured it was all right. The spell held all by itself, and I’d almost forgotten that he still had wings and a tail. My life has never been that fucking easy though.

The wings are definitely back now though. That was a powerful spell, and I can’t imagine what could have broken it. I get up, fetch my wand, and try to recast it. “Quick as a flash!” I command, pouring all my magic into the words. Simon’s wings flicker for a few seconds, and I hope…but then the flickering dies down, and now I feel utterly drained. It’s possible that since I have less of a grip on what the spell does than Penelope, it didn’t work for me. But I know it should have done something, I felt the magic. Simon groans like he’s in pain. Oh Merlin I hope I didn’t hurt him. I’d never forgive myself.

“Baz.” He whispers.

I barely hear it, and if I wasn’t a vampire I know I wouldn’t have. “Simon, I’m right here.” I grab his clammy hand, and lace my fingers with his. “I called Dr. Wellbelove. You have a high fever.” I’m not about to tell him about the wings, it would only make him upset.

“I’m so hot. So hot. Why is everything so hot Baz?”

“Shhhhh.” I hush him. But he’s right; everything is so hot. I can taste things burning in the back of my throat. I notice the ice pack by Simon’s cheek, and move to put it back on his forehead, but it’s melted, so I grab it instead. “I’m going to get you another icepack, okay? I’ll be back in just a minute.” I use the voice I use when soothing siblings or calming animals. I reluctantly stand up and detach my hand from Simon’s, then head to the kitchen. 

When I walk in, I can’t immediately figure out what’s going on. The dishes are no longer washing themselves. But they’re doing something. The plates and cups and bowls and cutlery are on the floor and facing a spoon that is…reciting poetry?

“A sticky plate is a used thing.”

“Hear hear!” murmur the dishes, clinking with their neighbors.

“Resting on the cutting board, like so much surface,  
for an instance of appetite.”

“Mmmhmm” the other dishes wiggle appreciatively.

This is bizarre. It takes me a minute to even focus on why I’m in the kitchen in the first place. Finally I clear my throat. The dishes swivel around to face me. I pull out my wand again, and command, “As you were.” Under normal circumstances, this would halt a spell in progress. Under these confusing circumstances, I feel my spell release, and realize a second too late that it feels all wrong. My spell was completely overpowered, but it’s too late. The crowd of dishes all suddenly turned into small piles of wet and goopy clay. Is it just the residue from Simon heating up the other room, or am I suddenly warmer than I had been when I walked in? I hurry to hop around the clay and pull a new icepack out of the freezer, putting the old one back in.

I give Simon the new icepack (he’s once again asleep,) and go wait in the living room. I can’t stand seeing him like this and not being able to do anything, so I’ll just wait in the next room. Somehow I know that trying to spell him better is only going to make things work. I open Simon’s laptop out of curiosity, and type in the password. (Of course I know his password.) The window that is still up and running is on some medical evaluation website, the kind where they make you think you’re going to die of cancer, when really you just have a cold. The page is entitled, “Human Fever Limits: Infectious Diseases.” I scroll down, and see multiple posts saying that 40 C is the limit, and to do something fast if it’s higher than that. All the links have been clicked. How high is Simon’s temperature? I’m not exactly the best judge of warm and hot, given that practically anything alive is warmer than I am when I haven’t fed, and Simon runs hot anyway, so it’s hard to tell. I’m about to get up and find a thermometer when I hear the sound of the front door being unlocked. The next moment, Penelope is practically falling into the apartment. Her hair is frizzy and windswept, and she looks disheveled. I can only think that I’m unimaginably happy she’s here. I stand up. “Bunce, thanks for coming so soon. Simon is bad. I called Dr. Wellbelove and hopefully he’s on his way.”

Penelope shoves her hair out of her face and doesn’t even wait for me to finish speaking before striding to Simon’s bedroom. “He’s in his bedroom right? I’m glad to hear even you know how to make a sick person comfortable, Baz.”

I decide to find the thermometer after Penelope is settled, and trail after her like a lost puppy. I’m frustrated that I can’t be calm and collected, that I’m too damn invested in Simon Snow to think clearly. She’s standing in the doorway. “His wings are back.” I state the obvious.

Penelope, who is many things, but a blind idiot is not one of them, blinks at me. “I can see that. Why exactly are they back?”

I let out a growl of frustration. “I don’t know Penelope. I swear I haven’t done anything to them, except try to make them disappear again.”

“Did it work?”

“Obviously not, they’re still bloody here, aren’t they? Crowley, Bunce, I’m not incompetent. Once I realized they were back, I tried your little American spell. It worked for a second, but then they went back to being…” I gesture at the Simon-shaped lump in the bed, “this.”

She rolls her eyes. “Geez Baz, no need to be so dramatic.”

“Simon could be dying!” I protest, almost shouting.

A groan comes from the bed, and I snap my head towards it so fast I might have gotten whiplash. Simon’s voice drifts out, gravelly and breathy at the same time. “M’not dying, Baz. I’m just so…hhhot.” He mumbles, “Can you keep it down? Tryin’ to sleeee…”

“See what I mean? He was fine less than an hour ago!” I gesture to Penelope. She suddenly turns and runs out of the room. I’m left staring at the space she’s just vacated. It’s so hot in this room. I peel off my jumper and feel better once I’m only wearing a t-shirt. I’m sweating, which isn’t normal. I usually don’t sweat when it’s hot. I sweat when I’m working hard, or performing extremely difficult magic, but even the light spell certainly shouldn’t have made me actually warm up. 

Penelope skids back into the room, and is now clenching a thermometer in her hand.

“Hey! I was looking for that!”

“Well now I have it.” She turns the thermometer on, and I’m about to point out that thermometers are supposed to go in your mouth, when it beeps, and she shoves the thing in my face, with a triumphant expression on her face. “Baz, we keep our apartment at 23 C at all times. This room is almost 40 C. Simon is heating up the entire room, and I have no idea how he’s doing it. He’s got to be even hotter than that.”

This is bad. This is extremely not good. I snatch the thermometer away from her, clear it, then stick it in Simon’s mouth. The thing takes a second, then displays his temperature. “50.” I read out loud.

Penelope’s jaw drops. “No way. That’s impossible. Give me that!” She reaches to knock my hand away, and I glance back at the display.

“51…51.5…52.1…Penelope I swear I’m not making this up. His temperature is rising.” Fuck. There is something fundamentally wrong with Simon Snow.

 

Penelope and I are both completely paralyzed. Neither of us have a clue how to handle the situation, and we’re just watching in horror as Simon’s temperature climbs higher and higher. Time is ticking past, and every second is another rock that’s dragging Simon down into the deep, farther away from us. It’s been a while since he moved voluntarily, and now he’s just shivering in a ball. It’s like a bucket of water in the face when we hear a knock at the door. I’m the first to rise. I can’t stand the tension in the room. Moving is better than feeling so fucking helpless.

I open the door, and Dr. Wellbelove is standing outside, holding a satchel stuffed with books, and another lumpy bag that I suspect contains all his medical supplies.

“Evening, Pitch.” He mentions, as he strides through the door.

“It’s Baz. Everyone calls me Baz.” I mutter, as I shut it again. Normally I might make more of a fuss about the name thing, but right now Simon is who I’m most worried about. I’m once again following someone into Simon’s bedroom. I feel like some fucking pathetic puppy once again. Dr. Wellbelove sees Simon, and says nothing, but I can tell he’s putting on his doctor face. The kind of face where you don’t let anyone know how bad things really are. He immediately opens his lumpy bag, and fishes out a thermometer.

I clear my throat. “I doubt you’ll get a steady reading on that thing. Simon’s temperature has risen approximately 15 degrees in the last half hour. It’s slowed down though; before that it was rising at more than a degree a minute. I expect his temperature to now be around 65 C.”

Dr. Wellbelove actually raises his eyebrows. Apparently I’ve broken through the doctor mask. “I’ll take his temperature to make sure. Not that I don’t trust you, Pitch. Penelope, dear, could you possibly get me a glass of water?”

I laugh under my breath. I’ve heard variations on that theme countless times. Pitch, we trust you, we really do, only please won’t you be so kind as to let us search your apartment? Pitch, hate to bother you, but we’ll need you to be evaluated for psychological flaws. The war is over, and the Magickal community is peculiarly unwelcoming to me, specifically. I think they think I’ve put Simon under a spell. Or maybe they think I stole his magic. As if I’d even know how to do that; I’m only 18.

Dr. Wellbelove looks at his thermometer, then taps it and reads it again. “Merlin, you’re right Basilton. 65.5. How on earth is he still alive?”

What was that? I think it was my name, possibly. What do you know. “Yes. Also, you may have noticed that Simon’s wings are corporeal. Bunce and I developed a spell that has made them non-corporeal for two months, and neither of us removed it. It was an extremely strong spell, and given that Simon is, as you know,” I wince slightly, “Normal, he wouldn’t be able to break the spell.”

Wellbelove takes off his overcoat. “Basilton, I’d like you to tell me what has happened this afternoon, starting from when you realized anything was amiss. And please, don’t spare any details.

I give him an overview of the last hour, and when I eventually finish telling Dr. Wellbelove the details of Simon’s fever, his eyebrows are scrunched together worriedly. “Thank the Ma—Thank Merlin you called me as soon as you did, Basilton. This is serious, very serious, and I’ve never encountered anything like it. Of course there has never been something like Simon before…”

Someone like Simon. He’s not a commodity, he’s not an object, so stop talking like him like he’s a side table. When I actually focus on the doctor’s face, he looks a bit unnerved. Whoops. It seems that I’m acting unnatural again. Fucking hell, I’m not handling any of this well. I arrange my face into something slightly less vampire-y. (Hopefully.) “I’m aware my boyfriend is unique. I don’t care. Do you know how to help him or not?” Maybe I’m not doing so well in the nerving department, because Wellbelove still looks alarmed. And he doesn’t even know that I could kill him in a minute. Without my wand.

“Uh…from what you’ve told me, and what I’ve observed, Simon is somehow manipulating the magical atmosphere in your apartment. I have no idea how, since I can’t detect him actually using any spells of any kind.”

That’s my Simon, always a mystery. I remember when he had his magic. When he did spells, which was rarely, it didn’t feel like he was doing anything. A thought occurs to me. “Is it possible that he is somehow absorbing magic around him and reemitting it?”

Dr. Wellbelove looks troubled, and hesitantly shakes his head no. “Such a thing has never occurred before. It would be…catastrophic, especially at such a fragile time for the magical community. We’ve only just begun to recover from the Insidious Humdrum.

I laugh hollowly. If only he knew. “If that was what was happening, what would you advise?” I try to sound nonchalant. But the answer has never mattered more, because Simon is, well, Simon, and around him practically anything is possible.

“If he was absorbing magic and—and—leaking it out again? You can’t be serious, Basilton.”

“Consider it.” I sound harsh, commanding, how a Pitch sounds. I quickly add, “please.”

“I suppose the best course of action in that case would be to take him to a dead spot. No magic, no absorbing, so if that was going on,” Dr. Wellbelove raises one eyebrow skeptically, “it would stop if there was no magic to absorb.”

It’s what I need to know. I stand up, towering over the doctor. “Well, thank you very much for your help. I’ll call if we have more trouble.” I’m trying to get rid of him as fast as possible. Simon’s life may depend on it. 

Dr. Wellbelove stands too, but he’s confused. “But I haven’t done anything! What about his wings? Where did he get them? The answer might help us!” I’m walking him backwards towards the door. Human instincts come in handy sometimes. “Basilton, this violates my ethical code. You haven’t let me treat my patient! What will you do if he--”

“I asked you to leave. Did you misunderstand me?” I hiss in his face. Time is of the essence, and I have no patience for the doctor, well meaning as he is. I need to save Simon. Preferably before he’s dead. I grab Dr. Wellbelove’s belongings, and shove them into his arms. Then, placing my hand firmly on his back, I forcefully guide him to the door and open it. “Thank you for assisting Simon. Send me the bill, and I apologize for my rudeness. I assure you, you’ve been extremely helpful. Goodbye!”

I close the door behind me, and yell, “Penelope!”

“In the kitchen!”

I cross the room and enter the kitchen. Penelope is making tea, I’m assuming for Dr. Wellbelove. I’d forgotten that he’d sent her for something or other. Water, maybe.

“Penelope. We need to leave with Simon right now.” I wanted to sound in control but I only sound scared. I am scared. But I have (I think maybe) a plan.

“Is that a good idea? He seems really fragile, and we do not want to make it worse.” She leans on the counter and crosses her arms. Penelope Bunce is a fairly intimidating foe when she has a mind to be. But I’m not backing down.

“Listen. We need to take him to a dead spot.”

“What?” She asks, like I’ve gone brain-damaged. Maybe I have. Maybe this is all a dream. With my luck though, this could only be reality.

“Dr. Wellbelove offhandedly remarked that it was almost like Simon was sucking up magic! He could be sick because he’s absorbing magic, but he’s not a magician, so it’s all going wrong!” She looks skeptical, but I carry on. “Think, what does Simon’s magic feel like?”

“It’s kind of like…burning I guess.”

“It tastes like green things burning, Penelope. I could smell something burning when I got to your apartment. And I can taste it in the back of my throat now. We have to take him to a dead spot.”

“Baz, we cannot take Simon to the middle of a street or a bunch of scrub brush in the middle of nowhere. He’s not going to get any better that way, he’s going to get worse.”

I’m jubilant. “Yes and that’s why we’re going to take him to my family’s house. It’s huge, and there’s nobody there to see Simon’s wings. It couldn’t be more perfect!” I beam at her, relieved that I’ve thought up a halfway decent plan. (Whatever Simon implies, I’m not a criminal mastermind. I can’t just come up with brilliant plans. Only notice when they’re really really idiotic.

To my surprise, Penelope agrees with me. She nods determinedly, (Everything she does, she does with determination,) and quickly grabs a grocery bag from a cupboard and starts putting the admittedly limited food from the pantry into it. “We’ll have to go grocery shopping at some point, but we should get to your house first, before Simon gets any worse,” she says. “Do you want to move him to my car?”

“Since when did you have a car?” I can’t recall ever having seen her with one.

“Never mind that, it’s the cranberry Ford Fiesta. Catch!” She tosses the keys towards me and I snatch them out of the air.

I slip the keys into my pocket, then go back to Simon’s bedroom. He’s pretty heavy, especially since his wings are now corporeal, and I’ll have to carry him down four flights of stairs. Good thing I’m a magician. I pull out my wand and point it at Simon. “Light as a feather!” I enunciate. Making Simon lighter is way easier than floating him, since I can just carry him. I scoop him up and he groans as I settle him on my shoulder. I tuck his tail over my other shoulder and make my way to the front door. “Hurry up!” I call to Penelope.

It’s hard carrying Simon down to the street. He’s limp, like a sack of potatoes. Also, my vision keeps being obscured by his wings, which I don’t have enough hands to hold down. I finally get him out the door, and scan the street for cranberry colored cars. I fumble with Simon to try to extract the keys from my pocket, and finally find the car after unlocking it. Simon would be the most comfortable lying down, so I open one of the back doors and try to lay him down as gently as possible. He’s too long to be lying straight, so I bend his knees and tuck his feet into the car, then close the door. I slide into the passenger seat, and wait for Penelope.

A couple minutes later, she knocks on the window and I open the door to take the bag of groceries and clothes from her arms, and nestle them into my footwell. The next moment she hops into the drivers seat and I hand her the keys. We’re ready to go. She turns the car on and we pull out.


	3. Ticking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz and Penny race against time, before Simon takes everyone else down with him.

Penny

We’re careening down the streets, like Baz can’t get out of the city fast enough. Why did I let him drive? We are actually going to die when we run into a lamp post or something ridiculous. I was driving, but Baz was so goddamn antsy, the worst backseat driver, and I couldn’t handle it and finally exclaimed, “Merlin Baz if you want to drive so bad just drive!” So he jumped out of the car and got into the drivers seat so fast I had to scramble to get in the car before he put it in gear and started moving again.

I want to shout, obviously this is faster, Basilton. We’re not even using the road! but it wouldn’t change his driving at all. As soon as a car gets in the way, he just goes around it on the sidewalk. Maybe he actually is evil, because there are pedestrians everywhere. Or he’s in love. I’ve heard people do some crazy things for that. I guess he can’t be bothered to just use magic right now.

We turn onto a cobbled street, and I can’t get my thoughts straight because I think my brains just liquefied. “Baz!” I manage to shout over the rumble of the cobblestones, “Careful about Simon!”  
Baz practically slams on the brakes, and I jerk forward against my seatbelt. We start driving again, and now we’re crawling. I try to regain my equilibrium, head spinning and trying not to puke. “You don’t even know where you’re going. Just let me—“

“No.”

Fine, be that way Tyrannus. It would feel so good to call him that…Simon’s more important. I look around and realize I know where we are. “Listen, turn left here, that’ll get us out of the city the fastest.”

Baz glances at me, seems to decide I’m trying to help, and turns left.

When we get out of the city a while later, (and we did, once Baz stopped driving nowhere like a madman,) we both relax as the speedometer climbs upward, hovering around 120 km/h. We’re racing through the suburbs, now the countryside, and clouds are rolling in and Simon is shivering in the backseat. It starts to rain. Big, fat drops hit the windshield and the road slowly darkens. We keep driving.

We drive and drive, and the rain gets heavier, until Baz is forced to slow down a little, to keep from hydroplaning. The road has gone from a few puddles, to a lot, to one big puddle. All three of us are silent. Baz and I get along okay when we’re both in a good mood, and we’re brilliant when Simon’s our buffer, but right now we’re both too worried and stressed and frustrated to be able to talk to each other civilly.

I guess I should be super worried about Simon, but there’s only so much worrying my brain can handle before it just collapses in on itself and I’m just I’m floating above my emotions. My mom tells me it’s a good thing that I can think in emergencies. “Penelope, you’re a talented witch, but your strength is your level head. The best mages in the world have gotten into fewer scrapes than you and haven’t come out of them.” That was in the middle of a lecture about associating with Simon after the Humdrum took us both two years ago. So I kind of swept it aside, since the main point she was making was that I’m an idiot for associating with Simon Snow. But now, after…Well now I take the words out and hug them tightly to my chest and will my body to absorb them. Sometimes someone else telling you something true is better than a dozen self-reflections.

A couple hours have gone by, and the tension has left Baz’s shoulders, even as the inside of the car gets uncomfortably warm and things go wrong, courtesy of the human furnace we have lying in the back seat. We’ve survived all four tires temporarily catching on fire, and both our seats deciding they need embroidered suns all over them. (Fortunately we managed to notice before we also got sewn into the seats.) Recently, the steering wheel has been slowly turning into wood, and it’s now starting to form twiggy branches. This is definitely Simon-brand magic.

We’re getting closer, I can tell, by the way he’s started glancing at the occasional street signs we pass. I start imagining what the house will be like with nobody living there. Will it be like a creepy abandoned mansion like Dracula? (I’m sorry, sometimes I let my imagination go wild with Baz as a proper vampire, like in movies.) I guess all the fancy rugs and things will be gone, which makes me involuntarily shiver. It’ll be cold, for sure.

I happen to glance into the rearview mirror at Simon, and for a second I think my eyes are just blurry. Then I look back and all the urgency from back at the apartment comes back. “Baz, how far away are we?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.

“We’re close, the next driveway will be mine. Why?”

“Because we’re about to have a pretty significant issue on our hands.” Because Simon is getting that look, where his edges aren’t quite clear—or maybe they’re too clear to be able to see. Because I’ve suddenly remembered what Baz said about the smell of Simon’s magic. I’m sure he’s been smelling it all along, but now I can too. Because Simon looks exactly like he always did right before he went off. He’s not even conscious, so we have no guarantee that he knows we’re here, that he’ll protect us like he always did. We need to get to that dead spot, fast. 

 

Baz

I glance over at Penelope, and notice that she’s tensed up all of a sudden. Once we got out of the city, I could feel us both relax, but something’s making her nervous, I can hear it in her voice and I can smell her sweat. I glance in the rearview mirror out of habit and see Simon, practically vibrating with contained energy.

Oh.

Penelope has more experience with Simon when he was like this on a regular basis, but I’ve seen him too. In our room at Watford, when he’d be so angry at me or someone that he’d almost disappear. (And I almost wanted him to. Then I could actually get something done, instead of fantasizing about the Chosen One.) Simon, who has trouble talking, and keeps everything wound tight inside him. It never did him any good, it just made his magic worse. And now…Simon’s not supposed to have had magic. He was always leaking it all over the place, and Crowley it’s hot in this car. I open my window. He’s certainly leaking magic like a waterfall is a leak, and now I can actually feel it, buzzing in my teeth like that cross he used to wear.

I’m so focused on just drive that I almost miss the turnoff. (That would be an entertaining headline; “Teenage Mage Kills Boyfriend by Trying to Save Him.”) I slam on the brakes yet again, and Penelope and I slam forward, our seatbelts catching again. I wince as I hear Simon partially fall off the seat. I’m sorry Simon, I’ll tell him when he’s better. I wasn’t concerned with injuring you when you were dying. And he’ll brush it off and kiss me on the forehead and laugh and everything will be fine and we’ll move on. 

Focus, Baz. What would Simon do? He seems to just know what to do in sticky situations. He acts.

We crunch up the driveway. There’s grass growing in the middle, and blackberries encroaching on the sides. It’s shocking how quickly nature starts to reclaim places, once people aren’t living there any more to fight back.

When we finally drive into the dead spot, I feel like the air got punched out of me. Simon says that they don’t affect him much, since he’s used to living without magic. Lucky bastard. I’ve lived my entire life surrounded by mages and magic and when I’m in a dead spot it’s like I’ve lost one of my senses. 

I shake my head to try to clear it, and then narrowly avoid hitting a deer. Penelope gasps from next to me. I’m hyper-tuned to any noises that Simon might make, and when a vampire is tuned into something, you’d better fucking believe that I’m going to hear anything that happens. So I actually manage to notice that that buzzing feeling in my bones is gone, and sure enough, when I turn to check, Simon just looks like Simon, and not a Simon-shaped pool of light.

Well, at least we’ve dodged one bullet.

We turn a bend in the driveway, and I can see my house for the first time. I don’t know what looks any different—maybe the grass is a little wilder, and the hedges aren’t trimmed, but that doesn’t account for the difference. There’s something that just feels empty.

For a second, I think I see a flash of light in a third floor window. But when I blink, all the windows are dark.

It must have been a trick of my eyes. Nobody in their right mind would be here. What are we doing here?

 

Penny

I can only stare at Baz’s house. Is it even a house? Houses are cozy and familiar. If I lived my whole life in a place like this it wouldn’t be cozy, or familiar. I spend a second imagining what it was like to grow up here, then I remember that Baz spent most of his time at Watford after he went to school, and that his family isn’t like my family at all. (Okay, maybe Mordelia is. She’s spunky and nosy, two qualities that my family has in spades.)

When we were here before, it was still huge and intimidating, but at least there were lights. Now, the whole place is dark. 

I feel like I’m low on oxygen or something, which I know is because we’re in a dead spot, and I wish that Baz had thought of a plan that didn’t involve camping out in a deserted mansion with no heat or food.

I guess we’ll have to make a new plan if this doesn’t work. If we have time. Which we will, because Simon will be okay. We’ve been best friends for eight years, and right now, he’s really my only one. Sorry, Simon, but you won’t get away this easily.

We come to a stop in front of the front door. Baz hops out of the car, moves to open Simon’s door, then turns away, then turns back…

For crying out loud. “Baz, I’ll check on him. You go find the key to open the door.” 

Decision made for him, he only pauses a moment to look at Simon, then jogs off to wherever the Grimm-Pitches keep their spare key. I figured there must be one. Everyone keeps a spare key somewhere.

I open the back door of the car, and gently shake Simon’s shoulder. His skin is hot, and I can only touch him for a second, but he’s breathing evenly. The movement has some effect though; his tail seems to almost curl around one leg, just barely, like it got tired right after it started. I sigh in relief. At least Simon still responds to stimuli, however small that response may be.

I dig out the thermometer I’d shoved in my pocket back at the apartment, and stick it in his mouth. It takes a second, and beeps. I cross the fingers on one hand and pull the thermometer out with the other. (One time I read this book about a mage who believed that all Normal superstitions are founded in real disturbances in magic. I was skeptical at the time, but now I’ll do anything that might help.) The display reads 67 C, which I write down on a paper towel I started writing his temperature and the time, on when I got home. I don’t know how he’s not dead but I’ll take it and figure out why, later. 

Baz reappears, now a little out of breath. He’s holding an ornate key at least as big as my hand, and, for some reason, a garden shovel.

“Found the key,” he breathes. At what I’m sure is the continuance of the confused expression I’m wearing, he adds, “The shovel is for protection. We don’t have our magic here. There could be…unsavory characters inside.” What exactly is Baz worried about? I’m sure this place is locked up tight, and we’re kilometers away from anything. Who would be here?

 

Baz

Penelope now looks faintly amused. Fine. I’m certainly not a kung fu master, and I seriously doubt she is either. We’re so used to using our magic that we’re basically defenseless without it. Really the only things I’m any good at, other than magic, are football and violin, and somehow I have trouble envisioning those skills being useful if we’re attacked or have to fend off wolves. Not that I think that we will. But sometimes people hole up in empty houses; eat the preserved food that seems to appear in pantries and lasts forever. That flash of light I saw, popped into my head while I was getting the key, so I grabbed something heavy and semi-sharp. 

Penelope can grin, but I’m just going to help Simon. I toss her the key, and she manages to catch it. “Unlock the door, I’ll carry Simon in.”

“I’m sure you can unlock your own door!” she snips. 

I internally sigh. I don’t have time for this. “I’m a vampire, Bunce. I’m stronger than you. So I’ll carry, and you can unlock the door. I don’t think that’s beyond you.”

She probably hates me now. I don’t care; I’ll apologize later. Right now Simon is the only person I want to think about. I hook my arms under his, and drag him most of the way out of the back seat, then try to gently lift him over my shoulder. It’s hard to do, especially since Simon isn’t exactly helping, plus he’s burning hot. By the time I can see where I’m going, (the wings are difficult to direct,) Penelope has managed to get the door open. She looks vaguely angry, but I walk past her and head straight for the stairs. “Come on, Bunce! Unless you want the ghosts to pinch you!” 

There can’t be ghosts without magic, which Penelope probably also knows, but I can’t help ribbing her a little. We were rivals for seven and a half years. You can’t expect all that to just disappear just because we both love Simon Snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, Simon, Baz, Penny and co. belong to Rainbow Rowell.


	4. In the Dark

Baz

Our footsteps echo as we make our way across the entry hall. The long side tables are covered in white sheets. Is there a breeze? A broken window probably, and the chandelier chimes eerily, barely audibly, from it. It’s hard to see where I’m going when I have Simon’s wings to deal with, but I manage to direct us towards the staircase. We can go to my room.

Simon is slowly cooling down, returning to a more normal temperature, which I hope is a good sign. That he’ll wake up soon. I can feel his breathing, hot on my arm. It could be magic that he’s exhaling. That would be a paradox; Simon Snow, not even a magician, who created this dead spot in the first place, breathing it back. But Simon, you’re completely made up of paradoxes. 

We reach the stairs, and I momentarily lean against the banister to catch my breath. A little extra strength is nice, but I’m not Superman. Simon weighs as much as me.

“Where are we going, again?” Penelope asks, just a hint of fear creeping into her voice.

It’s not surprising that she’s freaked out; my house is fucking creepy. When I was little, I’d go looking for skeletons, or hidden treasure, or booby traps. Then I found a couple, and decided to stop looking. I had nightmares about the skeletons, woke up screaming. (As if I needed any more nightmares.) And then Cecelia caught on, and my life got even better. Cecelia is—was? one of the wraiths that hang around here. Some of them are all right, most don’t bother me. Maybe they can tell I was already corrupted, so they didn’t go out of their way to torture me. Mordelia hates them though. Are they even here? Did they get blasted away with the rest of the magic?

I look around, and decide, “Let’s go to my room. I can build a fire for us, and see if there’s anything in the pantries that we can eat.” And I can try to figure out about the wraiths.

Cecelia is—was—this obnoxious maid-type character. Wraiths don’t, strictly speaking, have names, but someone named her, and we all call her that. I don’t even know what they are. Traumatic magical imprints of magicians, I guess. Kind of like—kind of like Simon Snow and the Humdrum, now that I think of it. Exactly like.

I adjust Simon in my arms, and try to figure out a better way to see, (I could really use some of that crazy vibrating right now, Simon. You make an awful window.) And hike up the grand staircase. We walk down a couple hallways that I know like the back of my hand, and finally arrive at the arched doorway to my room. “Penelope—mind getting the—oof—door?” Simon’s chosen this moment to move, and elbows me in the side. I’m glad he’s (probably) not brain dead, but my ribs aren’t quite so enthusiastic.  
“Fine.” She huffs, and squeezes past Simon and me to turn the knob. It jiggles—locked. It didn’t occur to me that my room would be locked.  
“Just unlo—oh uh I think I have a couple bobby pins in my back pocket.”

Penny actually turns around at my remark, eyebrow raised. “Why do you have bobby pins in your back pocket?”

“It takes work to make my hair look this effortlessly sexy, Bunce.” I shoot off. In for a penny, in for a pound. 

My muscles are starting to cramp up from carrying Simon for so long, so it’s a relief when Penelope finally gets the door open. I stride through the doorway to my bedroom and lay Simon on my bed before collapsing on the lounge chair. I can’t stop a groan from escaping me, as all the tension I’ve been holding since this afternoon just leaves my body. It’s totally dark outside now, and I feel like I’ve been awake for days. I close my eyes for a second, then take a deep breath and roll my head in Penny’s direction. I’ve officially started calling her Penny mentally, which is all the more reason to never do it in real life. Then she would know I actually like her. “Bunce. Game plan. I’m tired, you’re exhausted, Simon’s sleeping. Use that fantastic brain of yours and come up with a plan, I don’t have the energy.”

She flops onto the carpet. “Excuse me, why do I have to make a plan? I thought this was your plan! You’re supposed to have the plan…” she trails off, a defeated expression on her face when she realizes I don’t have a plan. I don’t have a plan.

We just sit in silence for a couple minutes.

“Maybe—no” she goes back to being silent.

My mind drifts, sorting through little tidbits of Simon until I’m not even thinking about anything, letting myself fall into an exhausted trance.

I wake up and bolt upright, my heart racing. I heard something. I strain my ears, trying to pick out what woke me up. I suddenly vividly remember that I left my shovel next to the car. The room is dark, since we didn’t bother to turn on any lights when we got in here, but luckily I can mostly make out everything. Penny on the rug—check. Simon on the bed—check. Barely visible glowing from under the door—I blink, but it’s definitely there. I unfold and stand up, then silently move to the door, all my senses on high alert. In one movement I turn the doorknob and open the door.

Cecelia is staring at me from the other side.

She’s holding something—a piece of paper. Wraiths can move things, if they’re angry or upset enough, so I reach out to take it. She snatches it away from my hand, and retreats down the hallway.

I glance back at the dark room, but my arm is already closing the door behind me. “Cecelia,” I whisper-shout, “what do you want?”

She bares her teeth in a semblance of a smile, then holds out the paper again, like she’s taunting me.

I can’t stop myself. I follow her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carry On belongs to Rainbow Rowell. Dang. Also, this is a short chapter, but it just worked better to break it up here, and I wanted to post something. Thanks for reading, and comments are lovely!


	5. Everyone has Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz gets a message from one of the Pitch wraiths, and it means that Simon, Penny, and Baz are in more trouble than they realized.

We wander through the halls of my ancestral home (ancestral home, what a fucking joke.), me trailing after the wraith and I realize we’re heading towards my father’s office. In a very indirect way, but I’m not about to suggest that to Cecelia. She seems vindictive and upset enough already, I do _not_ want to be the one who set the wraith off. I have fond memories of being woken up in the middle of the night to crashes in the hallway and unearthly wailing, because one of my sisters managed to piss off Cecelia, or William. (They were the worst ones. William especially.)

We finally reach the office, and Cecelia passes right through the doorway. Meanwhile, I try the door, which of course is locked, and start patting myself down for another bobby pin to pick the lock. There’s a skill the Pitch family tree would disapprove of, probably. I should always use my magic, to remind everyone else how much _better_ than them I am.

It’s lucky I wasn’t totally brainwashed. It’s coming in handy.

I manage to get the door open, and step into the study. The room is lighter than the dark hallways, a sliver of moon outside the window casting enough light for my vampire-enhanced eyes to see detail with. Cecelia is drifting by the desk, paper in hand. She lets go, and lets the paper drift and settle. She tries to pick up a pen lying on top of the desk, but it takes a few tries before she can manifest enough to get a hold on it.

She’s never had any difficulty picking things up before, but I suppose it’s probably harder with so little magic around. (Any magic is surprising, honestly. Obviously there is some, since Cecelia is here, but I thought Simon drained this place completely.)

I approach the desk slowly, not really wanting to make her get _better_ at manifesting by making her nervous. Believe me, I’ve had enough bad experiences with wraiths’ abilities to physically manipulate things for a lifetime.

I peer down at the paper, and for a second, I can’t make out any words I can read. Oh. Upside down. I need sleep. I twist my neck trying to orient the page without getting closer to the wraith. It says:

_There’s only a trickle. Why was the river dammed?_

I forgot that wraiths are never straightforward, and never polite, either. Honestly, I’m surprised there aren’t more expletives in the message. The river? She must be talking about the lack of magic in this hole. I open my mouth to speak, and am suddenly _very_ up close and personal with Cecelia’s face, sharp teeth bared. I shut my mouth quickly, and she retreats back behind the desk. No talking then.

I pick up the pen, and scrawl:

_Do you mean magic? It’s been gone for months._

I pause to watch Cecelia’s reaction, which is…violent. She starts overlaying, and I take a couple steps back, just in case. Overlaying happens when wraiths get _really_ volatile with their emotions. Wraiths are basically just emotions, and when there’s too much going on, and they start fragmenting into multiple versions of themselves, in the same location, expressing it until they feel better. It’s basically a scary, dangerous, toddler temper tantrum.

She’s obviously struggling though, fading as she splits into three equally violent images of herself, one snarling, one screaming, one crying. (I can tell because of the body language, not because I can actually hear anything.) I sigh. I’ll have to wait a couple minutes.

When Cecelia finally returns to normalcy, she picks up the pen again. It’s even more difficult this time, but then again she did just waste energy throwing a temper tantrum. She writes:

_We’re tapping on the new glass. Solid until a crack…_

_…_ and now she takes a minute to draw a picture. I’ve got to hand it to her; she’s terrifyingly good at drawing. The pen tears through the paper, she’s pushing so hard. It’s a picture of a pane of glass, with a crack through it, and all the Pitch house wraiths on the other side. Then she draws a candle on our side of the glass, and smudges it to show that it’s only just been blown out. Then she keeps drawing and drawing, frantically, until the whole page is a mass of scribbles. Quick as a blink, she’s flipped the paper over, and keeps drawing. Moths, with furry bodies and human faces, are circling the indentations of the candle from the other side. And my heart stops when she draws Simon on top of the indentations of the candle.

“That’s Simon.” Obviously, Baz. But Cecelia stops scribbling, apparently deciding I’ve gotten whatever point she’s trying to make with the drawing, (I really don’t think I have,) and writes six words. Five words that mean, once again, Simon Snow is both the problem, and our only saving grace. _Candle is gone, smoke cracked glass._

I just stare at the paper for a minute or two, my mind whirring. Simon is obviously no longer devoid of magic. Our problem is, that he’s still not a mage, and so he’s collecting it like a vessel that’s filled to the brim, and is spilling over, through little imperfections, in completely unpredictable ways. I don’t totally know what Cecelia means with the Simon/candle thing, but I have suspicions. And we’re about to have a problem on our hands if any more wraiths escape.

I need to check on Simon.

 I know I should think about this more, right now. But it’s the middle of the night, and I’ll be able to think clearer in the morning. Plus, in the morning Cecelia will probably be too weak to physically manipulate anything, so I won’t have to worry about dealing with her. (Wraiths are strongest at at midnight, and wax and wane in relation to how recent or close 12 AM is.)

 “I’ve received your message, and I’ll do whatever I can to remove the… _glass_ you’re concerned with. Simon is under my protection. Please inform the other wraiths of this house of my intentions.” I slip into formal, internally consistent speech, after running a few possibilities through my head. I was taught when I was very young that the only sure way that your intentions are clearly received and correctly interpreted, when dealing with wraiths, is to make sure there aren’t any loopholes. And Simon’s safety is my main concern, so I try to make it clearer. “If you do _anything_ to hurt—in any way—Simon, I’ll make _sure_ that nobody else gets through. You can tell them that, too.”

 I snatch the paper before Cecelia has time to steal it back, turn on my heel, and stride out of the room. I hope I look confident, like I can follow through on my threat. Inside, I’m just trying to get back to Simon (and Penny) as quickly as possible. I can’t live with myself if a wraith come through and hurts them.

 I get back to my bedroom, and make my way over to the bed as quietly as possible. Simon has shifted at some point, or maybe Penny moved him, and is now lying on his side, wings hanging off the side of the bed. I go to the other side, lift the heavy duvet, and slide into bed next to Simon. I turn away from him and pretend that he’s not unconscious, that he’s only sleeping, and at any moment, he’ll snuggle up to me and pull me into him. I pretend until I fall asleep.

 

 When I wake up this time, it’s daytime, and Penny is throwing open the curtains, letting light into the room. The sky is mostly grey, but the kind of grey that makes me think it’ll clear off later in the day.

 “Bunce, what unholy hour is it?” I groan, crossing my elbow over my eyes.

 She turns towards me and says, “It’s eleven already. I thought I’d let you sleep for a while because I know _I’m_ exhausted, but, Baz, we need to do something at some point today, and I’m not going to leave this room in the dark.”

 That’s probably smart, with the wraith problem. Speaking of which…I groan. “I know perfectly well that you’d rather be awake during the day. However we might have a problem with that.”

 She eyes me critically. “What’s gone wrong _now_?”

 Everything. “Wraiths. Wraiths have gone wrong.” _Crowley_ we have a problem. I bury my face in my pillow with a whump. Can’t we get lucky for once?

 Penny clears her throat. “And…?”

 “Mhh mrthhh rmmh mmehmmp mrmh mhrmmn.” Pillows aren’t the most effective mode of communication, as it turns out. I sit up. “The wraiths are obsessed with Simon, Bunce. One of them woke me up last night just so she could draw me a lovely illustration of just _how_ obsessed with Simon they are.” I dig around in my pockets, pull out the folded, and now a little crumpled, paper Cecelia gave me last night, and unfold it with a crinkling noise.

 “Look, there’s Simon, these moths are the wraiths, and you can’t see what this is because it’s scribbled out, but it showed all the wraiths trying to get back through some barrier, which now has a crack in it, thanks to our mutual favorite person, Simon Snow.”

 Penny’s eyes have been widening the whole time I’ve been talking, and when I stop, she curses under her breath, “ _David Bowie.”_ But then she recovers, and the obvious question presents itself. “Okay, I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but wraiths are magical. They can’t exist without it, and we’re in the deadest dead spot in England.” She hesitates, but soldiers on, “are you positive you weren’t, you know, dreaming?”

 “I think I can tell what’s real and what’s not when a wraith wakes me up and draws me a picture,” I snip. “And trust me, Bunce, I’m no artist. Unless I’m a fucking dream drawing savant, it actually happened.”

 “But—there’s no magic here.” She crosses her arms, unintimidated. One thing can definitely be said for Penelope Bunce; she doesn’t back down.

 “There wasn’t. Until we got here.”   I can tell I’m being difficult and obtuse, but I don’t stop just yet. After she hears me out. “I have a theory.”

 “If you say so, dream boy.” She crosses her arms and stares me down. I can understand why she’s unwilling to play along; I wouldn’t either, if someone told me that the solution to my first problem had turned into a new problem.

 “You’re right about this being a dead spot. It was completely devoid of magic for months, until late last night. That’s when we drove up with Simon, who was radiating magic like it was going out of style. We know he’s been absorbing magic—“

 “We do?”

 “Yeah, it’s the only thing that makes sense, it’s why we came here in the first place. If that wasn’t what’s going on, he’d still be heating up, and we’d have a human torch on our hands.” Penny looks a little nauseous at this remark. “Anyway, so we get here with Simon, who is now basically a magic battery. We drive into the dead spot, and suddenly Simon was the most magical thing around. He’s doing something that’s never happened before—bringing magic into my house, which doesn’t have any, and when it leaks out, it adds a little bit of magic to the area. That’s what the crack Cecelia was talking about, is!”

 I’m working it out as I talk. Simon created the crack, and then like some bloody crazy moth, Cecelia managed to squeeze through, attracted by his magic. I recall one of the lines, and glance at my paper to make sure I’m right. “ _Why was the river dammed?”_ The wraiths just vanished when the magic did; banished to some other dimension. They didn’t know time had passed, and then all at once, when we got here, they _realized_ that they were trapped, and found a crack, at the same time. I remember how Cecelia mimed blowing out the candle. She’s seen Simon before. When he was here last Christmas, before everything went to hell. She knows that he glowed with magic. (Candle.) And to her, he suddenly was “blown out,” since he wasn’t practically made of magic. But the smoke…

 Last night, Simon’s breath was so hot on my arm. I thought it was just his fever. But now I wonder if he was breathing that magic out. I actually contemplated it being magic. But it was an idle thought, crossing my mind with a crowd of others. Now I realize that I was completely right. If I could see magic, Simon’s breath would be like the smoke when you snuff out a candle.

 I think I’ve spaced out, lost in my thoughts, because Penny clears her throat. She asks, “Who’s Cecelia?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting exciting now! Thanks for reading, and as always, I love getting feedback, so if you have any comments, I'd love to hear them.


	6. Wide Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our favorite dragon boy wakes up. (Finally!)

Simon

I can feel music in my bones. It’s like a siren song, pulling me into consciousness. I’m so tired, all I want to do is sleep, but every time I try to sink back into oblivion, I feel it again, vibrating in my head. The music is alive, too, and it’s beautiful, half-thought melodies and harmonies so slippery I can’t quite make them out. The more I try to catch one, the more it recedes, until I’ve managed to wake myself up instead of going deeper into sleep. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping I can convince my brain to quit thinking, but it’s too late. I’ve lost the music.

I drag myself out of unconsciousness to find myself lying on something so soft, I could sink right through it. And it smells like Baz, which is even better. Things that smell like Baz are automatically at the top of my list. I blearily open my eyes to a dark room. I can’t see anything at all, but I sit up. I feel like hell. All my muscles are sore, and I feel lightheaded, like I’ve run a marathon without drinking enough water. My skin feels grimy, like dried sweat, and when I lick my upper lip, I can taste salt on my tongue. Which is weird, since the last thing I remember clearly is falling asleep after eating that weird, but delicious, rice snack Baz made me.

My brain feels kind of fuzzy, like when you stay up all night and try to function the next day, or when you’ve been studying for hours, and the words just seem to float around the page. 

I feel around, and figure out that I’m on a bed, which (probably?) explains why it smells like Baz, but I’m not in his apartment, and I don’t think we’re even in London. There are no traffic sounds, and no streetlights shining through the windows. It’s also freezing, and Baz never keeps his apartment this cold. (I tell him it’s too cold every time, but I know I like to be warmer than most people.) I slide off the edge of the bed, and the ground is a little farther than I’m anticipating, which makes me stumble and blindly reach in front of me. There’s just air, but after a few steps, my hand meets the wall. I can feel a thick carpet under my socked feet. Where am I?

Maybe I’m still dreaming. It would make sense if this is a dream, but everything is incredibly vivid. I can feel my heartbeat thumping. I can’t hear that music any more. As I slowly make my way around the room, looking for a light switch or a door, I sift through my memories leading up to this. I remember coming home from class, and starting to work on homework. But then I was feeling feverish…I remember deciding to take my temperature, and getting up to go to the bathroom, where the thermometer is. Head rush, and I think I knocked some stuff off the table on accident. I remember deciding to sit back down, wait for Baz to get back, and looking up fevers on WebMD or something. Then Baz came home, and I must have drifted off. I remember that cheesy rice, and kisses, and then…nothing.

I’m a little panicky, because I really really don’t remember anything else.

I finally find a doorframe, and feel around until I locate the doorknob. I twist it, and open the door onto what I think is a hallway. I still can’t see, but I’m almost sure now that this is Baz’s house—mansion—the one I fucked up last year. I know Baz’s family moved to Oxford, so why am I here?

There’s a feeling nudging at the back of my mind, prodding me to turn left. If this is Baz’s house, I probably won’t die, right? Nobody’s here. If it is, there’s definitely no magic, which is great for me, since I won’t have to deal with magical problems that I can’t solve. For the thousandth time, I wish I could still summon the Sword of Mages. It’s been my automatic reflex for so long I can’t help longing for when I could just reach and it was there.

I pad down the hall, one hand on the wall and one feeling in front of me, occasionally coming across side tables and lamps. None of them work, although I do try to find a switch of some kind. They probably use magic or something. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m restless, and while I feel like absolute shit, my mind is whirring too much to be able to fall back asleep. The same questions keep popping back into my head. How did I get here? Why am I here in the first place? What the hell is going on?

I hear a creak behind me, and whip around, straining to try to see something, anything in this pitch-dark hallway. I guess it really is a Pitch hallway… But I can’t see anything, so I slowly turn back around, the bitter feel of adrenalin in the back of my mouth, crawling up my throat.

There’s probably nothing there. This is (probably) an old house, creaks happen.

Like that ever convinced anyone…

But I feel like I’m being followed. The hairs on the back of my neck are prickling, and finally, I can’t take it anymore. I wait until I reach the next table, and whip around to blindly face whatever is behind me. There’s a crash from the table I just reached, but I’ll think about that later. In front of me is an eerily glowing blue shape, barely distinguishable except that I can’t see anything else. It’s vaguely human shaped, and I think it waves a hand towards me, as if to tell me to keep going.

I really don’t want to turn my back now.

Apparently I’m not quick enough though, (because I’m terrified, and I’m not going to walk away from this thing unless it’s my only option,) because the next second an icy blast of cold air hits my face, making me stumble. I automatically try summoning my sword, before remembering that it would be pointless. Old habits die hard, and I’m a panicky mess. Slowly backing down the hallway, I never take my eyes off the figure.

Something crunches under my foot, and I squat down, never taking my eyes off the thing. (Wraith? I’ve never seen one, but at Watford the description we got was pretty similar to what’s in front of me.) My fingers feel shards of something, maybe pottery? I straighten, and slip the piece in my pocket. I definitely wasn’t close to anything, so how—

I am all of a sudden aware that my wings and tail, which are normally barely noticeable, feel entirely corporeal. That would be how I smashed a lamp. Fuck.

Why would Penny or Baz have taken off the spell?

The wraith is giving off an impatient air, if a semi-visible, indistinct human form can seem impatient. It’s obviously trying to direct me somewhere. Fine, I’ll behave. I definitely don’t want to die-by-wraith, if such a thing is possible. (If it’s possible, you can bet I’ll be the one to find out.) I break the silence, “Where should I go?” I ask, my voice raspy. Hell, I sound like a chain smoker, dry and ashy. My throat feels raw, like that one time I got strep throat and didn’t talk for days because it hurt so much.

The wraith is silent, but it starts drifting towards me, speeding up. I’m about to pull out my shard, when it takes a hard right and zooms down a hallway I hadn’t seen. I weigh my options: Go after the wraith, or go back to the dark bedroom. Self-preservation has never been my strong suite. I stumble after the wraith, muscles protesting with every step.

The wraith’s glow is illuminating the hallway a little, and I can tell I’m definitely in Baz’s house. The gothic decorations are a clue, and the arched doorways are the clincher. I’ve never been in this part, but that isn’t surprising, given that I was here for a couple days a year ago, and we had bigger issues on our hands.

I hope I can find my way back. Baz’s bedroom is much more reassuring than a dark and empty mansion, and I can imagine myself just wandering around forever, until I died of exhaustion. (Which probably wouldn’t take that long. I’m fatigued already, and I’ve barely been walking for two minutes.)

Who am I kidding, I’m already totally lost.

My footsteps are silent on the carpet, and the only sounds I can hear are my breathing, harsh and loud, and a whispering wind from the wraith.

I’m led to a doorway, which the wraith sinks through. I’m instantly in total darkness again, and I fumble to find the doorknob. The dark shouldn’t scare me, but things are too weird to take my time. I can’t find it. My fingernails scratch over smooth wood paneling, trying to find something. I feel something touch my wingtip, and turn to put the door at my back, but there’s only blackness. Fortunately, I now feel the door handle pressing against my back, and I find it with my hand before actually trying to open the door. Deep breaths, Simon. I probably just bumped a table, I’m okay, I’m okay. 

The handle is stiff and hard to turn, and it feels ornate, covered in what I’m sure are symbolic emblems of the Pitches, or something like that. I finally manage to pull the door open, and light greets my eyes. I hurry through the door and close it behind me.

This room must have been a conservatory at some point. The ceiling is high, at least two stories, and made of clear glass panels. My eyes are so dilated that I thought there was a light on, but really, any light is from a sliver of a crescent moon, and stars. Still, I can see enough to look around for the wraith. It’s nowhere to be found, but I do see the skeletons of trees and bushes, devoid of any kind of leaves. This place seems like its been dead for a long time, like it was abandoned a decade ago and nobody’s been in here since.

A layer of dry leaves covers the tiled walkways, but there’s a path through them, like someone has walked the same way many times, not noticing they were creating a trail with their steps. Someone has been in here since. I don’t really know what I’m doing here, but this seems as good a direction as any to investigate. I walk slowly through the dead conservatory, scanning the trunks and branches for a tell-tale blue glow.

A stone bench next to an empty fountain. The fountain is cracked, but the bottom is tiled with amazingly detailed and complex tiles. They look expensive.

An archway, which I stare at as I pass under. It must have been covered in climbing vines at some point, but now they’re just brittle sticks still clinging on to the metal.

Two wire chairs next to a wire table. There’s a stack of books on the table, uneven from how the pages have warped. It feel like they’re waiting for someone who just went to grab a cuppa.

Finally, another arched door on the other side. I turn back to look at the conservatory again, in all its abandoned, time-saturated glory. Creepy.

This door is easier to open, or maybe I’m just wishing it was harder, because I’m sure it’ll open into another dark hallway. Or maybe a dark ballroom, or a dark dining room. I’m so done with the dark.

It’s a dark hallway, yes. But I can make out the wraith at the end, and a faint glow that must be from a room at the end of the hall. I don’t want to shut out the light from the moon, but there’s no way I’m leaving the door open behind me. Against all my instincts, I swing the door shut, and once again I’m stumbling around, extra sensitive to any variations in the floor.

I reach the end of the hallway, and there’s a pair of double doors to the right, one of them open a couple inches. The light I saw is coming from in here. I reach my hand out to open the door, then hesitate for a second. There’s someone in here, for sure. I don’t actually know who it is, so maybe I’ll wait for a minute, see if I can hear anything. I sit down and try to peer around the door to get a glimpse of the room, but all I see is a couple chairs covered in white sheets.

Then I hear it.

That music from before, but I can focus on it now. It’s haunting, and not exactly sad, but not happy either. It makes me think of a garden after a spring windstorm. The notes are a little shredded—enough to feel the dissonance; but there’s something wild and pure and hopeful underneath. It’s getting under my skin, and into my stomach and it feels totally familiar, although I’ve only heard it once. I stop paying attention, and the next thing I know, Baz’s violin music is dragging me forward.

I scoot forward, trying to get a better look in the room, trying to get closer, and then my fucking wings bump the door, and it swings open, squeaking painfully loudly. I scramble to my feet, and try to look like I haven’t just been caught listening at the door. Baz is standing in the middle of the room, holding his violin by the neck, the bow in his other hand. He looks awful—but then again I get the feeling I probably look awful too.

“Simon?” Baz says, his voice cracking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw yes! Simon is awake! Don't worry about how, we'll get there. As always, comments and kudos are appreciated/they actually make my day. :D Also, I am v sorry for not posting anything for about six months. This semester has been a tough one, and I couldn't get myself to relax enough to write something not academically related. Are there still Carry On fans reading fic? I have no idea. But now the semester is over! Woooo!


	7. This Way to the Vampire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content disclosure: claustrophobia/panic attack.

Baz

 

“Who’s Cecelia?”

After I get Penny up to date on my wraith experience, we start laying out a plan. After bouncing ideas off each other for a few minutes, I realize we need to get more organized, and stride to the library, calling over my shoulder, “We need _space_ Bunce. Let’s relocate.”

 

She catches up with me quickly enough, and we’re back to brainstorming before we’ve even reached the library. I push the doors open with both my hands, and one glance around the room makes my stomach drop. The whiteboard I want to use is here, but it’s covered with words already. _Everything we know: ghosts, Visitings, vampires, Nicodemus._

It’s crammed full, in Penny’s and my handwriting, still there from when we didn’t even know what the Humdrum was. Of course nobody erased it when my family moved out, why would they?

 

A sideways glance at Penny tells me she’s shocked as well. It feels like a lifetime ago that we were in this library, squabbling about the Mage, trying to figure out the mystery of my mother’s death.

 

Penny walks up to the board and stares at it for a second, then whips out her phone, takes a picture, and briskly starts erasing everything. “Well we can’t just leave them there, we need the board.” She says. Penny is great like that: she doesn’t believe in sentimentality, or wallowing in memories. Not that I’ll ever say that to her, I’d never live it down.

 

I nod faintly, “I’m going to the kitchen to look for something to eat.” I need some air.

Penny is too busy writing new lists to pay much attention, and I slip through a servant’s door that leads straight to the kitchen.

 

The narrow hallway is so dark I can’t see anything, but I’ve used the servants’ shortcuts since I was a toddler, and I know exactly how many steps to go before turning left to the kitchen.

 

The only thing is these days, I avoid total darkness whenever I can. Darkness isn’t something I _do._ It reminds me too much of weeks in a coffin, slowly starving, seeing things that aren’t there, suddenly having attacks of claustrophobia. Trying to get out, and the only thing to show for it once I stop is bloody fingernails and splinters. And the door swings shut behind me, and now every step away from the library makes my heart beat faster, makes me hear ringing in my ears, makes me taste panic on the back of my tongue. I walk briskly, then start jogging, and finally give up on the pretense that I’m fine, there’s nobody to see me break, running until I slam into the kitchen door and fumble for the door handle, my fingernails scratching on the wood paneling. My mother would _never_ forgive me.

 

What if I never get the door open, I’m stuck in this dark hallway forever, Penny never finds me, when the light is _so close_ , it’s just on the other side of this fucking—

 

I find the handle and burst into the kitchen, panting, and slam the door shut.

 

As the rushing in my ears fades, I can’t help but slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, head between my knees.

 

I’m a creature of the night, and I can’t even handle a dark twenty-meter hallway. Great going _Basilton_. I fervently wish (again. For the hundredth time.) that Simon was awake, that he could hold me in his arms and not mind my shivering, until my heart beat went back to normal, a solid, warm boy between me and oblivion. He’d murmur into my hair, _I’m here, you’re okay, you’re alive, open your eyes,_ and his even breathing would remind me to slow down mine.

Slow…down…I focus on my breathing, and finally open my eyes and stare at the grey marble floor under my legs, try to memorize the pattern until I’m calm.

 

_Crowley_ I’m the worst vampire that’s ever been. My fists clench involuntarily.

 

I hear a sound so soft I think I imagined it. Probably a mouse, although I thought we set traps of some kind when we left the place. My eyes start drifting closed. I’m so tired. I’ll just—

 

Another noise, a kind of scuff. There’s definitely something in the kitchen, and I catch a whiff of…what? Salt? I keep my body still, while looking around at the kitchen. (At least, the bottom half.)

 

Cupboard, floor, the legs of a chair…

 

A pair of brown loafers, pointing towards me. Instantly, my whole body tenses. Do I even have my wand with me?

 

I slowly raise my head, never taking my eyes off the person standing in front of me. How did they sneak up on me? I’m a fucking vampire, I _hear_ things. Brown loafers…old jeans…a ratty suit coat with a plaid button up underneath and I know. Blond hair and a gape-tooth smile, and Nicodemus Petty is leering at me.

 

“I bet you weren’t expecting your friend Nico when you and your friends crashed in, Pitch.”

 

I scramble to my feet, trying to play cool, like I haven’t just been scared shitless. _Freddie Mercury_ but I’m scraping the barrel for something good and witty and scathing to pull out. “ _Crashing_ is a gross lie. It’s my house, I can do what I want.” I sound irritable and whiny, like a bratty kid. Fuck.

 

Nicodemus laughs, “Well then Pitch, never thought you were such a wanker before, but I guess I should have figured it into your being a Pitch an’ all.”

 

Grinding my teeth in frustration, I manage to keep some semblance of manners. (The alternative would be punching him in his little self-satisfied mug.) “Look, I don’t want to fight you. But could you go over that part where you’re _squatting_ in my _house?_ ”

 

Nicodemus manages to look a little sorry. “Well you gotta understand, I’m not exactly in favor with most of the others right now. Thought I’d find somewhere to lie low for a while, and this here place is missing magic pretty significantly. Nobody’s come looking for me yet, except you three bumblers.”

 

“Why are you on the outs?”

 

“When you’re conspiring with the pretty boy Chosen One, it don’t look too good to the other vamps. Never mind that I was doin it for—for Ebb—“ he breaks off, looking away briefly.

 

I’ve never regretted leaving him behind when we went to Watford that day. But I’m starting to now. His sister…Merlin when I think of what I’d do for Mordelia, never mind her whinging and her absolute lack of Pitch heritage. And I remember him swooping in with those _fucking_ numpties, guiding my wand, _Have a break, have a kitkat,_ thinking up spells like breathing.

Maybe having a vampire at Watford for one night would have been better.

“I’m sorry,” and I really am.

 

“Yeah well,” he kicks a cupboard, viciously, “I guess I should’ve expected we’d never stay out of it completely. Ebb n’ me, they always wanted us to fight.”

 

“It wasn’t your fault.”

 

“If I hadn’t gone to over to the vampires, Ebb would have left Watford, and she wouldn’t have been there when—“

“Yeah, and both of you would have been recruited into the Mage’s Men, the instant they formed, and maybe the Mage would still be here, and Simon would be dead, and we’d have a civil war going on. She—her death meant something.” I say earnestly. I absolutely believe that if Ebb hadn’t been there, things would have been much worse. But pretending it’s not so painful you feel like you have a hole in your chest—

 

Nicodemus refocuses on me, “You’re not the one whose sister was murdered.”

 

“Yeah, I’m the one whose mother died in front of me, and was turned when I was _five_.” I bite back. I’m not about to get guilt tripped by him, of all people.

 

Nicodemus’s face falls. I should probably be nicer to him. I sigh. “Look, let’s not fight. I came down to scrounge up some food for us, we won’t bother you.”

 

“Like you haven’t bothered me already, Chosen One’s leaking magic like someone forgot to turn off the tap.”

 

I blink. “You can actually feel it?”

 

He laughs. “You’d have to be blind not to. Just because I don’t do magic don’t mean I can’t feel it. You can too, or else you’d be going out of your mind in this dead spot.”

 

I haven’t thought about that. Penny talks about her dad’s work a lot, especially to Simon, and of course I remember when this dead spot formed. Vividly. It was like there was this buzzing in my ears, cancelling out my ability to think. I’ve been so frantic with Simon, and now the wraith problem, that I haven’t even noticed how normal I feel. (Not Normal. I’ll never feel Normal.) But there’s no denying that there’s magic in this house.

“We need to be here, Snow’s in six kinds of trouble and this is the best place I could come up with.”

 

Nicodemus looks genuinely curious. “What’s got you tied up in knots, Pitch?”

 

I lean heavily against the countertop. “Simon is sucking up magic, not like he did before, but he can’t handle it, since he’s basically a Normal. The only thing I could think of on the spot was bringing him to a dead spot, to get him away from magic.”

 

I’ve got his attention now. “Resourceful,” he says, raising one eyebrow, like I’ve impressed him. “But kid, you’ve still got a problem on your hands.”

 

“I’m aware.” Speaking of which, I should get back to Penny. With food. Which I was supposed to bring back a while ago now, probably. I move around Nicodemus and investigate the pantry, while also trying to keep him in my peripheral vision at all times. I don’t completely trust him, and after he snuck up on me, I’m not about to lose track of him.   The pantry’s meager pickings, probably because someone’s been eating from it for who knows how long, but I snag some crackers that look okay, a sealed jar of pickles, and a pitcher for water.

 

What if I bring Nicodemus back with me? He’s innovative with magic; he might be able to help with Simon, or help us help Simon. I don’t think he can hurt us, and is enough like Fiona that I’d rather know what he’s doing than let him be loose in the house. On the other hand, he’s a _vampire_. (I’m a vampire.) He’s _dangerous._ (He’s not. And I am.) And…I really want help. I’m so out of my depth.

 

“Do you want to help us?” I ask, with my back turned, watching him out of the corner of my eye. I hope I seem nonchalant about it, when I really desperately want him to help, now that I decided to ask.

 

He leers, “Ha! Not likely. Who do you think I am, some snotty kid looking for a mystery?”

 

“I’m eighteen, I’m not a child,” I snap.

 

“Eighteen shmeiteen. You’re a kid in my books, and who says I was talking about you?”

 

Deep breaths Baz. We really do need him. “Look, we could use your help. You’re brilliant with spells, and you know far more about how magic actually works, than me or Bunce. And if you help us, I won’t have you kicked out of this place the second I leave.” I cock my head and raise my eyebrows, challenging him.

 

Nicodemus smirks, his eyetooth holes gaping. “Well I didn’t think you had balls, Pitch, but I guess I was wrong. Yeah okay I’ll help you with your special Snowflake.”

 

That went…surprisingly well.

 

We’re still just standing here. “Uh, shall we go back to the library?”

 

“Lead the way, Pitch.”

 

Somehow it doesn’t sting so much when Nicodemus Petty says my name. It’s seems like kind of a good-natured barb, more of a habit than anything. I lead the way out of the kitchen, by the main entrance. He doesn’t comment on my avoidance of the servants’ hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't have anxiety, or panic attacks, so I apologize if this is totally inaccurate. As always, kudos and comments are much appreciated/they literally make my day.  
> Also, Nicodemus Petty is absolutely amazing as a character and I'm really loving playing with him.   
> Bonus to you if you got the Fangirl ref!


	8. Like Moths to Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicodemus Petty joins the team, and the whiteboard is introduced.

Baz

The instant we enter the library, Penny has leapt up and is pointing towards Nicodemus with that huge purple ring she uses to do magic. “Baz, you may not know this but you’ve got Nicodemus Petty on your heels,” she states, calmly. Well, calmly except that she’s still pointing that damn ring at us.

 

“Relax Bunce, he’s okay. _Really,_ he’s safe _,_ so you can lower your ring.” I say when she continues to point her finger _calmly_ straight in between Nicodemus’s eyes. “Look, he’s been squatting here, I ran into him in the kitchen. I anticipated that he might be useful, so I didn’t kill him and stuff his body in the wine cellar, and then he followed me back. He said he’ll help us, and I can’t imagine why he’d lie.” I allow a note of sarcasm to enter my voice. I pointedly glare at Nicodemus when he opens his mouth like he’s about to correct me. I’m not about to let him tell Penny that he snuck up on me and watched me have a panic attack because I was scared of the dark. Nicodemus shuts his mouth audibly. Good.

 

“Fine. But I’m keeping my eyes on you, mister.” Penny eyeballs Petty with the intensity of a Cyclops, and Nicodemus tenses up.

 

We need to move on before they get into a fistfight. I walk up to the whiteboard. “So, are we going to do this the old fashioned Simon Snow way, Bunce?” I say casually, twirling a marker through my fingers. I write two columns: _Things We Know. Things We Don’t Know._

“It’s worked every other time, so I don’t see why not.” Penny shrugs. She’s still glaring at Nicodemus. Nicodemus was glaring back, but he’s distracted by the whiteboard.

 

“This is how you kids defeated the Mage?” Nicodemus looks incredulous. “With a marker and some lists? Christ I’m getting old.” I laugh a little internally. I think he and Fiona could be soulmates or something.

 

“Yeah we did, so shut it,” Penny shoots back, jutting her chin forward. (She picked that up from Simon. Crowley, _I’ve_ probably picked it up from Simon, he does it that much.) She grabs a second marker, and looks at the board thoughtfully, tapping it against her lips.

 

I scrawl, _Magically induced fever. Simon is absorbing magic (again). Invisibility spell failed. Wraiths,_ under the _Things We Know_ column. I hesitate at the second column. I did this before, I remember, but somehow I knew a lot more then. I don’t even know where to start. I turn to Penny, bowing low and holding out the marker in front of me. “I defer to your expertise for the second list, oh great Penelope Bunce, maker of plans.” Nicodemus lets out a little snort.

 

“Baz, knock it off,” Penny says, rolling her eyes and snatching the marker out of my hand. “We don’t know _why_ Simon is absorbing magic, that’s the main one.” She writes that up on the board. Her handwriting is much neater than mine. “We don’t know what triggered it, and we don’t know how it’s possible, because Simon should just be Normal after the Humdrum disappeared, right?” She says, writing as she speaks. “Normals can’t interact with magic. Oh, I guess that should go in the first column.” She erases _Normals- No Magic_ with her sleeve and rewrites it to the left.

 

“Generally, civilized people use erasers to erase things,” I drawl, looking pointedly at the whiteboard eraser sitting _right there_.

 

“Classist.” Penny shoots back. I grin.

 

“We don’t know how to make him stop.” I point out. I glance at Nicodemus. He’s apparently much more interested than before, shifting to look at each of us when we speak, leaning forward on the edge of his chair, his fingers tapping rapidly against his knee.

 

He interrupts our brainstorm, “Simon Snow did what now? He’s a Normal? No way, that kid was such a firecracker I couldn’t barely look at ‘im.” He even looks a bit concerned, the tosser.

 

Penny and I exchange a glance. “He’ll only be helpful if he know all the facts, and I’m not letting him out of our sight.” I point out. Penny sighs in response, which I interpret as a yes. She doesn’t look particularly happy about it: Penny is fiercely protective of Simon. But so am I, so.

 

 

Half an hour later, Nicodemus is caught up on most of the things that happened last Christmas. When we finally finish, he looks a little bewildered, like the world has shifted a little bit. “Thanks for tellin’ me...It’s good to hear how Ebb…the real story, instead of the gossip mill version.” His eyes look watery.

 

I don’t know what I should say. What are you supposed to do after you tell someone how his sister died? I don’t say anything. I just leave. We should be checking up on Simon more.

 

 

Penny 

Thanks, Baz, now I’m stuck here alone with him. Nicodemus looks like he might start crying; I guess maybe Ebb wasn’t the only crier in the family. I don’t really remember much about him, from last year, I’ve only heard what Baz and Simon have told me. Baz described him as pathetic. I can see why he’d say that, Baz is one of the most powerful magicians I’ve met, breaths magic like air, and when he looks at Nicodemus I can practically see him imagining a future where he’s not quite careful enough, and someone discovers that he’s a vampire, and next thing he knows he’s getting his wand snapped, his fangs removed, and his entire identity comes crashing down around him.

 

Because as much as Baz gets off on playing up the whole vampire baddie thing, I know that it’s accompanied by unbelievable, crippling self-hatred. That’s one of the reasons Simon’s so good for him. They’re perfect for each other, really. Simon doesn’t care, at all, about Baz being a vampire. He’ll do anything for that boy, and he loves him so much. He probably thinks it’s sexy when Baz vamps out...Besides, if Baz could keep _that_ a secret for eight years at Watford, I can’t imagine it’ll be more difficult as an adult. (Although, I suppose Simon suspected him for a long time, and Simon’s not exactly the best at noticing things. But then again, Simon was completely obsessed with Baz.)

 

Nicodemus still looks a bit weepy. I clear my throat, breaking the silence. “Can I call you Nico?” I ask, hesitant. Nicodemus is such a mouthful.

 

His face lights up. “Yeah, you can call me Nico. It’s been ages since anyone’s had a nickname for me. Fi used to call me Nicky…” Nico sort of looks like he’s going to cry again.

 

“Have you ever…talked to Fiona? Since, well, since you became a vampire?”

 

“Hah. Nah, she’d probably murder me the instant my back was turned, and feel not a bit sorry about it.” He looks at me like I’m an idiot. At least I snapped him out of his crying funk.

 

I remember that picture we found, a lifetime ago, with Nicodemus, and Ebb, and Fiona, and I can imagine a Fiona Pitch who _would_ kill him. I’ve only met Baz’s terrifying aunt once, but I think that really, now, she’s just as much of a mess as Nicodemus Petty. And I imagine her policy regarding mages turned vampire started being a lot more forgiving fourteen years ago. I respond to Nico with a kind of noncommittal noise. It’s not my problem whether he talks to her or not. “Do you have any ideas about this?” I say, nodding towards the whiteboard.

 

Nico snorts. “You two geniuses’ll work everything out.”

 

He’s infuriating, and yeah, sort of pathetic. I stare at the board some more, but I’ve always worked best if I’m bouncing ideas off someone, and Nico isn’t very cooperative. I guess we’ll have to wait until Baz comes back, and who knows how long that’ll be.

 

So I stare at Nicodemus instead, trying to work him out in my mind when suddenly I have a brilliant idea. “Nico, what it’s like being a mage-turned-vampire?” For a moment, his face is furious, but then he immediately smooths himself into a blank wall. Stevie Nicks, I might need to be a little more subtle. “Look, Nico, you’re unique. There’s nobody like you! You have one foot in the World of Mages, and one foot in its underbelly; _nobody_ knows more about what that’s like than you. Or,” I reflect, “anyone who’d be willing to talk to me, and who wouldn’t rip my head off.” I grab a pad of paper and a pen lying on the table, and plop down on the footstool in front of Nico’s chair, and can’t help but lean forward.

 

I can see a battle being waged across Nico’s face. I’m pushing my luck here, not exactly playing up my likeability, but I don’t think I’ll be able to make any headway with the Simon situation, and I’m not one for wasting time. And I can just imagine, my book in every magical household, Penelope Bunce, the leading source on mage-magical creature relations. My parents have their research projects, my dad has actually changed his entire field with his work. I want to do that. And this is one subject that most mages don’t even care to look into at all. The potential…There’s next to no information about vampires, that I’ve found.

 

Nico is looking at me with narrowed eyes. “You’ve got nerve, askin’ me something like that. If I talk…”

 

“This isn’t an interrogation.”

 

“You could’ve fooled me, girlie.” He bares his teeth in a terrifying smile. “If I talk, you gotta promise me a few things.”

 

“Anything.” I breath. I’m not being very smart here. But new magical knowledge, that nobody has even thought to explore, it’s sitting right in front of me and all I have to do is ask the right questions. This will be groundbreaking. Baz is notoriously tight-lipped when it comes to his “condition.” (He calls it his “condition”. Can you believe that?) I’ve heard him talking to Simon, when they think I’m not around. How there was no information about vampires, how he had to figure everything out himself. How he doesn’t think he has a soul, doesn’t know if he’ll live forever, or grow old and eventually die like an ordinary human. And there are only a few people who know that once, a mage went over to the vampires. Most of them are dead.

 

And, I suddenly remember, being a vampire isn’t the only interesting thing about Nicodemus Petty. I vaguely remember Baz recounting Nico’s miraculous appearance at the numpty cave, and his apparently god-like display of magical innovation. Trust Baz to focus on that. (Trust Baz to completely discount the panic attack I can read between the lines and know he had.)

 

Nico’s eyes widen, and then he fixes me in his glare. Anything. I mean it. “You’ve got no self-preservation instincts, girlie. They’re going to get you killed one day.” He thinks for a moment. “One. Not a word of this conversation gets out to anyone without my say so, or else I’m dead. Two. Never mention my name in whatever you think you’ll be using this for. Three. I get a cut of the profit from the book you’ll undoubtedly publish someday,” he pauses, “and a copy, _signed.”_ Well. Let it not be said that I’m not completely transparent.

“Done.” I say so quickly I cut him off a little bit.

 

“Well then.” He shifts around, getting comfortable. “Whad’ya want to know?”

 

“Talk to me about your relationship with magic.”

 

 

Baz

I’m a little concerned, letting Nicodemus and Penny alone together; Penny looked like she was perfectly willing to tear his head off with her bare hands, if he looked at her the wrong way.

 

I’m sure it’ll be fine.

 

As I walk down the dimly lit hall, (every hall is dimly lit. I object every time Simon says it’s a vampire mansion, but it’s mainly on principle.) I feel warmer the closer I get to my room. I haven’t noticed until now, until Nicodemus pointed it out, but I can actually _feel_ the magic that’s leaking out of Simon. Will it dissipate, get reabsorbed back into the atmosphere?

 

Could Simon fix the dead spots?

 

I won’t know anything until we get him to just _wake up_. I’ve walked past my room without even noticing, so I backtrack and quietly go in.

 

Cecelia the wraith is floating over Simon like a freaky incorporeal leech, her hair drifting all around her. “Get away from him!” I shout, moving forward.

 

She lifts her head. There’s a bright patch right in the center of her chest, and she’s brighter than last night. _It’s mine,_ she snarls, looming in front of me.

 

I can feel my pulse in my ears. (Or maybe I just need to hunt. I don’t remember the last time I had blood.) “I said, **out, out, damn spot!”** I command. I have my wand in my hand, somehow, and the spell just comes naturally. I can feel the release of magic, and next thing I’m hot all over, stumbling backwards, feeling for the wall. I’m dizzy, and my vision is tunneling. I finally find the wall with my hand, and lean against it, breathing hard.   When I look up again, Cecelia is gone. What the fuck just happened to me?

 

As soon as I can stand without feeling lightheaded, I hurry to the bed to check on Simon. He’s just sleeping peacefully, wings tucked up beside him, mouth open a little. If I hadn’t been with him for the last…I don’t even know how long, I wouldn’t know anything was wrong. Well. I _would_ know, because this close, Simon’s magic is thick in the air, and it’s intoxicating. I’m feeling light as a feather, and why did I come here in the first place? Because now I never want to leave. It’s probably the fact that I’m practically drunk on magic that has me composing music in my head, music that doesn’t even begin to describe the warmth, and the electricity singing through my veins, and the _longing—_ I’m drawn closer almost against my will, and the urge to just touch him, just for a second, is overwhelming. I catch myself on my hands before I topple right on top of him, panting like I just ran a 5k. I turn to just look at him, and I can’t help myself, even though I should probably know better. He’s so beautiful, and vulnerable, and peaceful, I can’t stop myself from bending over and lightly brushing my lips to his forehead.

 

The blast of magic the instant we make contact sweeps through my body, and I frantically wrench myself away. What the actual fuck is going on. This was not happening a couple hours ago. I need to go back to the library, _now—_ I don’t want to leave Simon—no. I have to get out of this room, this second _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will you look at that, it's been...3 months? Whoops. But this chapter is longer than usual! Anyway. I love Nicodemus. And Baz. I also love comments and kudos, feed the writing monster :) I'm over at tumbler at @relativelystellarlyinclined, come talk to me any time.


	9. Fire and Music

Baz

 

My lips tingle, and now I feel twice as intoxicated on Simon’s magic as I fumble for the door. I can smell that green smokiness that he always had, underneath everything else; that he hasn’t had since Christmas last year. I used to try to drown myself in that scent, every time Simon would go off, while simultaneously using words to cut him down. Well, I was a little masochistic back then. I shake my head, try to clear my mind, and pretend I’m briskly walking back to the library. (I’m actually sort of stumbling.) It’s like voluntarily diving into a frigid lake after sitting by a warm fire, only slower.

 

As I approach the double doors into the library, I hear Nicodemus’s gravelly voice. Then Penny. Then Nicodemus again. I can’t believe they haven’t strangled each other by now. I poke my head in, and neither of them take any notice. Penny has a notepad out, frantically scribbling on it, and Nicodemus is talking about something.

 

“…and below them are just the ordinary vampires, mostly newbies. A lot of times, an older one will take one of the young’uns under their wing, you know, teachin’ them the ropes, tellin’ them to watch out for mages, that kind of thing. And it’s…”

Is Penny…interviewing Nicodemus? About being a vampire? They’re so absorbed in it, I’ll just come back later, because Penny’s hunger for knowledge is a force to be reckoned with. And I’m not exactly eager to get dragged into this particular conversation—even though I admit I’m burning with curiosity.What _is_ vampire society like—no. I’ll tell them about Simon and Cecelia later, and also I feel like shit. I don’t have the energy. But I can’t go back to Simon, it’s too risky without knowing more.

 

I drift around the house, trying to think of something useful to do. But my feet know where I want to go.

 

I find myself standing in front of the door to Mother’s conservatory. It’s the most direct way to get to the music room, but I always hate walking through it. Whispers of memories tease me, flashes of toddling around while my mother reads at a table, in the summer,while I get dirt on my trousers, glimpses of a time when the fountains had water, and the plants weren’t dead. That’s why I always practice in the library. I hate this place.

 

The dead leaves crunch and whisper as I walk through them, and it’s a relief when I reach the other side and walk into the music room.

 

If I didn’t have to deal with memories of my dead mother haunting me, in order to get here, the music room would be my favorite room in the house. The ceiling is arched and high, and most of it is glass, and the floor is covered with thick Iranian carpets. When the sun is out, this room is so light that you can’t help being in a better mood than when you walked in. And when it’s raining, or overcast like it is now, it’s the only room in the house that doesn’t make you feel like it’ll probably never be sunny again.

 

There are a lot of instruments in here. There’s a grand piano, of course, and a harp in one corner, and my violin is in London, (damn) but I can see my viola, a cello, bass, and Mordelia’s flute. She doesn’t care about music very much, not like I do, I’m not surprised she left it here when the rest of my family moved out. Maybe it’s one of the things that runs in the Pitch family: Fire in our blood and music in our minds.

 

I find the viola, and open the case, pulling the instrument out. I prefer violin, but I’m passable with a viola. And I’m in a viola kind of mood. It’s out of tune, of course, so I start tuning, allowing my eyelids to drift shut.

 

As soon as I’ve finished tuning, I slide straight into a sonata I learned a couple years ago, and once I’ve finished, I move on to another piece, playing it from memory. I stop thinking, and just play, moving from one piece to then next, until I’ve exhausted my repertoire, and start improvising. At one point I realize that I’m trying to capture that moment, earlier, when my lips touched Simon’s forehead, and I almost couldn’t bear to pull away. I’m playing that first time, too, when Simon put his hand on my shoulder, and I enchanted a dragon, and I thought that maybe, there was hope for me yet, and I play that second time, when we sat on my bed and held hands and he took us to the stars, and all I wanted to do was kiss him senseless. I play while the music room falls into darkness, and finally I get too cold to move my fingers, and turn on the heat, and a couple lamps while I’m at it.

 

Already the melody is starting to slip away, so I rummage through the stacks of music for an empty musical notebook, and a pencil, and I start notating as much of it as I can, laying out melodies and harmonies, and little phrases and themes. I don’t bother trying to weave it all together; that can always come later. After a while, I pick up the viola again, and the bow, and play through what I’ve written, and then some more, and after a while I can’t resist falling back into the music.

 

Nobody comes looking for me. I’m sure Penny will keep talking to Nicodemus until they both topple over, and Simon…well, Simon.

 

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. It’s been hours since it got dark. I’m exhausted, both from the last couple days, and from the energy I’ve been pouring into this music. The last time I glanced at my watch, the numbers blurred together, and that was at 1 AM.   My fingers are tired, and _I’m_ tired, a kind of bone deep tired, but I keep playing. I almost feel like I could cast a spell with this music, a spell of binding.

 

There’s a squeak at the door, and I stop playing for a second to glance over my shoulder. It’s probably Penny. But it’s not Penny. It’s—

 

Simon. For a second, I think I’ve finally cracked, and this is a hallucination. But when I blink, he’s still here. Simon Snow is standing at the door, looking sort of out of place, and frankly, like he’s about to collapse.

 

I can barely speak, still don’t quite trust my judgement. “Simon?” I ask, my voice crackin from lack of use.

 

* * *

  

I can’t look away from him. It’s like my eyes have been magnetized to stick to the Simon-shaped human standing five meters away. He’s just so bloody perfect, curly hair falling into his eyes, a frizzy mess, lines still on the side of his face, and those blue blue eyes, staring straight back at me. He scratches his nose, right next to that mole under his eye, the one I kiss every time—

 

“Baz, what’s going on?” Simon asks, his voice paper dry. “This is—“ he struggles to swallow, and erupts into a fit of coughing. He’s thirsty, of course he’s thirsty, is there any water in this fucking place, I didn’t even think to bring anything why am I just _standing_ here—Simon catches his breath, then looks up with eyes watering. “This is your family house, right? The one I,” he winces, “destroyed?”

 

I drop my bow, barely have the wits to set the viola down before run and I sweep Simon into a hug, wrapping my arms around him tightly, burying my face in his shoulder. I’m holding Simon, he’s right here, standing right here, he’s _fine_ , and I realize I’m crying, tears soaking into Simon’s jumper. It’s like a dam opened, and I can’t stop; I couldn’t let go of him if I tried. He smells like woodsmoke, and even though I know how bad that is, all I can think is that he smells like _home_ , like our tower room at Watford, like the burning feeling in my chest that tells me that he’s too good for me. Simon is crushed up against me, arms trapped against my chest, and after a minute he pushes back slightly.

 

“Baz. Hey, I’m not going anywhere,” He murmurs, our faces inches apart. His breath is hot and dry on my face. “but you’re crushing me,” he continues, shifting. He tilts up to look at me. “Why was I asleep, we were at the apartment, and, there was a really creepy garden back there, but I could hear you playing, and I just followed the music, but I don’t really know what’s going on, and, um…” his voice shakes, and he trails off, distracting himself by fiddling with the collar of my sweater, breaking my gaze. I realize he’s shivering. I’m a terrible boyfriend, how did I not think, I just went straight up and practically tackled him, what was I thinking.

 

“Crowley, Simon. You’re shaking.” I finally let go of him, cast around me for a blanket, a sofa, anything really, but the music room was really not designed with fainting sick dragon boys in mind, which I realize in a second, and turn back just in time to catch Simon as he sways and starts to crumple. “Hey, Simon, stay awake,” I say, panicking a little. He groans, as I bring his arm around my shoulder, and manage to hook my other arm under his knees and pick him up. “Simon.” I say sharply, “look at me.” He scrunches his nose, and opens his eyes like it’s a colossal effort. How he even got to the music room in the first place baffles me, because he’s about as helpful as a sack of potatoes at the moment.

 

“You’re so pretty, Baz,” he murmers, drowsily, fingertips pressing the side of my neck weakly. “Look like you have a halo…haa you’re an angel, ‘xcept with pointy teeth…” he snuggles closer to my chest, and I give up. The force of Simon’s sleepiness cannot be stopped. I just hope he won’t fall into another coma.

 

We should get back to the library. There are couches in there, and Penny and Nicodemus, and we can figure everything out. _Crowley_ , Nicodemus. For a moment I forgot about him. Actually, on second thought, the library would not be the best place. It’s…3 in the morning. But I have a superstitious resistance to taking Simon back to my room.

 

It occurs to me that I’m no longer uncontrollably attracted to Simon. (Obviously I think he’s bloody gorgeous. _Literally_ attracted.) Holding him, I can feel the heat, and the burning taste that means that he’s full of magic, to the brim, but it’s not nearly as lightning-electric as before. Good. I take Simon back through the conservatory, and then back through the dark halls. I could probably cast a spell for more light, what with Simon’s leaky magic, but I don’t need it. When we’re nearly back to my room, I decide to instead open one of the empty guest rooms, and gently deposit Simon on the bed, tucking his wings close around him. I strip down to my t-shirt and pants, and slip under the covers next to him. The instant my eyes close, I’m asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha! We've finally caught up with chapter 6! Sleeping Beauty's spell is broken. I never imagined it would take so long for Simon to wake up when I started writing. I guess he just needed some time. Baz's passion for music is one of my favorite things about him. So delicate...so strong...such a virtuoso *wipes tear* anyway. Thanks for reading! As always, comments and kudos fulfill my dietary needs. Love y'all


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